


I'm slowly drifting to you

by ElisAttack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputee Stiles, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, Post Hale Fire, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 07:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6042907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is living and working two thousand miles away from everything he's ever loved, when he meets Stiles, a former killer whale trainer.</p>
<p>Or the one where Stiles and Derek are just two lost souls trying to find themselves again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm slowly drifting to you

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by the French film De Rouille et D'os and in part by Rocket Ride by Craig Davidson, the short story that inspired the film. I in no way condone the captivity of orcas, or any animal put on display and not being used for relevant scientific study.

Niagara Falls has nothing on Vegas.  It's small, the attractions not as awe inspiring as Vegas' are, and there aren't any Elvis impersonators.  It's the whole reason why Derek's here.  There's a casino, which means he has a job, but it's a tourist city.  He's just one of the hundred seasonal workers hired by the casino.  Forgettable.

He leans against the wall outside the employee entrance, smoking a cigarette he can no longer taste, as he stares up at the flashing neon lights, the men and woman stumbling along, trying as much to lose themselves as he is.

A woman giggles, pulling her friend into the alleyway, pushing her up against a wall, and burying her head into - well, _friend_ in the religious sense of the word.  Derek stubs out his cigarette and figures his break is almost over anyway.  The cigarette dulls his sense of smell, but his hearing works just fine.

The women's giggles chase him well into the casino. 

He nods to his floor manager before taking up his station at the table.  Derek smiles, making sure to flash his teeth at the women, tilting his head respectfully to the men.  He knows how to appear friendly, but not too friendly.  How to be memorable, but not too memorable.  How to greet returning customers and new ones.

It keeps a steady stream of people at his table, but doesn't make them line up.  He knows his hand signals, how to shuffle, how to deal hands quickly and efficiently.  He's good at what he does, but not too good.  Derek keeps his job, but he doesn't get any promotions.  It's how he stays under the radar.  He's a werewolf, but to all the humans around him, he has the exact same senses they do.

Derek lets an older woman walk away with a hundred dollars more than she entered with.  Predictably she makes a huge fuss, attracting a couple of men in suits, thinking his table is easy pickings.  Their mistake.

"Hey."  A voice says as Derek cleans the table after the men walk away, pockets lighter and mood dimmer, "Couldn't go easy on them?"

Derek looks up with a raised brow, only to meet whiskey brown eyes with deep, dark shadows beneath them and a full mouth wrapped around a straw.  A fruity drink with an innocuous umbrella sits in the man's hand as he sips from it, the other rests lightly on the rim of a black wheelchair.

"Why would I go easy on them?"  He finds himself asking.  "That's not in the job description."

"You went easy on the woman before."  The man says, slurping from the straw, chewing the plastic like he doesn't know he's doing it.  Derek finds himself watching the action, tracing it with his eyes.

"Are you watching me?"  Derek asks, lips quirking in a smirk, not minding that this man must have been eyeing him from the bar, seeing how he deals, if he can make Derek slip.

The man grins, "Just trying to get a sense of the competition."  He says, rolling himself to the table.  His moments are awkward, like he is still finding his way around the metal contraption.  A soft tartan blanket covers his lap, hiding his legs from prying eyes. 

Derek wonders if underneath they look like Peter's, atrophied from disuse.  "Well?"  The man says with a quirked eyebrow.  "Deal me in."

Derek loses exceptionally and it isn't even because he feels sorry for the man.

"You're good at this.  Smart."  Derek says respectfully as the man collects his winnings, sweeping his checks into the bag on his lap.

The man smiles,  "Well, thank you, kind sir."  He winks before rolling away from the table, waving a hand over his shoulder.  Derek shakes his head in amusement before greeting the next player to approach the table.

***

He's watching the news a few weeks later when he sees the man again.  Derek sips a beer, practising a one handed shuffle a fellow dealer showed him a day ago.  He's trying to perfect it without looking at his hands when the man with the whiskey eyes shows up on the television.  Curious, Derek puts down his beer and reaches for the remote, turning the volume up.

_...is offering no comment on the results from the trial..._

Derek frowns at the expression of pain on the man's face, one Derek would see in the mirror even years after the fire.  It's a cutting pain, one that isn't physical, but bone deep.  It tears and consumes until nothing remains but weakness and fear.

_...Stilinski, a former orca trainer..._

Derek watches as the man, Stilinski, is wheeled out of the courthouse by a older, weary man in a suit, eyes staring straight ahead as he faces an onslaught of cameras and reporters.

_...both legs amputated at the knee, a tragic accident during a performance five months ago..._

The weary man picks Stilinski up and the action causes him to freeze, as the tartan blanket wavers in the wind, exposing him to the cameras.  His arms tighten stiffly around the older man's neck, as he is tucked into a car. 

_..settled out of court with an unknown amount..._

Pushing through the sea of reporters, the older man enters the driver's side and takes off without a backward glance.  The camera swerves to face a blonde reporter wearing too much makeup with pity in her eyes.  Before she can say anything patronizing, Derek turns off the television and picks up the deck of cards, returning to his trick.  His ears tune into the rattle of the pipes as his neighbour steps into a cold shower.  The chatter of two women swimming in the over chlorinated pool in the center of the courtyard.  Children laughing, playing with a set of building blocks a few floors up.

He focuses on the sounds around him, tearing his mind away from the memory of his uncle lying prone in a hospital bed.  The smell of antiseptic thick in Derek's nose, but under it all, the stench of burned flesh.

***

He leans against the railing protecting him from falling two hundred feet into the churning water below, breathing in the fresh air.  The Maid of the Mist floats by, overcrowded with tourists in blue rain ponchos, all of them pushing, trying to get a coveted spot by the railing.  To feel the spray of millions of litres of water crashing so deafeningly into the rocks below, so very close to where they stand.

"There's something about the falls that bring out the daredevil in the most rabbit hearted man."  Derek turns around, hearing a familiar voice.  Stilinski sits in his chair only a few feet away and Derek wonders how he managed to sneak up on him so easily. 

It's probably because he spent years trying to burn away his sense of taste and smell, and his ears are full of the sound of the falls.  He commits the soft pitter patter of Stilinski's heart to memory so he won't be able to do it again.  Derek hates being caught unawares.

The tartan blanket lies on his lap, but this time Derek knows what lies underneath.  Seeing Stilinski finger the wool, tracing the lines on the pattern, feels like an intrusion.  Like he is betraying this man's trust by having watched that news story.

"You should see the tourists at the Grand Canyon."  Derek says, looking into Stilinski's eyes, watching the bright sunlight turn the whiskey amber, the mist settling on his long lashes.

He chuckles, "I don't think I caught your name?"  Stilinski asks, rolling closer until he's right beside Derek, looking down as the Maid of the Mist loops around the falls, laugher and shrieking coming from the boat as its occupants are drenched.

"That's because I never gave it."

"Pity."  Stilinski says, looking at him out of the corner of his eye.  "Seems unfair, considering all the locals know my name."  He says it teasingly, but there is a hit of bitterness in his tone.

Derek huffs, of course Stilinski is aware that the news channels are having a field day with his story.  "Not a local, and I only know your surname."

"Call me Stiles."  He says, not sticking his hand out for Derek to shake.

"Derek."  He offers in return.

"Well, Derek, since you're not a local, I bet you don't know where to get the best fudge on the boulevard.  Come on, let me show you."  He prods Derek in the side and spins the wheelchair around, leaving Derek no choice but to follow.

Stiles takes him to a small nondescript shop tucked away a few blocks further into the city.  The man behind the counter, his nametag declaring him Jim, greets Stiles by name but with a strained smile.  Derek can see just how it affects Stiles.  Clearly he knows the people in the shop, they all smile, but they are smiles full of pity.

"Here,"  Stiles hands him some cash, "Get me the maple walnut."  He says shortly and whirs himself right out the door.

Derek does what he asks, Jim frowns suspiciously at him, like he's wondering just what Derek is doing with Stiles.

"Don't lead him on."  Jim says his voice wavering on threatening, and Derek narrows his eyes.  He doesn't think this man knows Stiles well enough to be telling Derek not to hurt his feelings.  Derek takes the packet and walks out. 

He finds Stiles sitting by a bench under a lone oak tree, staring up at the green leaves as they blow in the wind.  "Hey,"  He greets when he spots Derek, "It was getting pretty hot it there."

Derek grunts, tossing Stiles his fudge and letting the lie slip on by without comment.

They sit in the shade together in silence.  Derek chews at the best fudge he's ever eaten, knowing he's going to be coming back for more within the week.

"You're very quiet."  Stiles says, breaking the silence.  "I like that about you.  You don't ask many questions."

"It's none of my business, why should I ask?" 

Stiles chuckles, "I wish everyone I knew felt as you do."  He sighs, rubbing a hand through tuggable hair, "There's no handbook for this,"  He gestures to his legs with one hand with the other taps distractedly at the wheel rim.  Derek crumples the empty wax paper, throwing it into a nearby bin.  "I hate the stares the most."  Stiles finally says ignoring his silence, staring back up into the shifting leaves "Almost as much as I miss them."

"You were a performer,"  Derek says, "Of course you do."  He studies the side of Stiles' face, the spattering of moles at his cheeks.  He must be gorgeous when he smiles, a face perfect for the cameras.  Cute with his button nose, with his pouty lips.  The crowds must have eaten him up.  They must have gone wild for him.

"Yeah."  Stiles says, and his voice is full of such blatant pain, he doesn't need to say anything else.

"Do you feel like swimming?"  Derek asks suddenly.  He doesn't know where it came from, and with the incredulous look Stiles shoots his way, it certainly wasn't expected.

"What?"

"I feel like swimming.  You're right, it's hot."

Stiles just stares at him until he abruptly says, "There's a nice beach only a ten minute drive away."

"My car's only a ten minute walk away."  Derek offers.

Stiles refuses to let Derek push his chair for the first few minutes, preferring to wheel himself, until his arms grow tired.  Only then does he allow Derek to take over, grumbling the whole way.

"I'm not weak."  Stiles pouts, rubbing at his elbows where they must be sore.  According to Stiles, he's be going around the city all day, trying to find something to do, bored out of his mind.

"No, you're not."  Derek agrees.

The beach is nearly empty.  It's the middle of the week, and there's only one other person there, a woman with her dog, but she ignores them, and they ignore her.  Stiles sits on the edge of the car seat, the door open as Derek opens Stiles' chair to his exact instructions.

Derek moves to pick him up, but Stiles lifts a hand to stop him, "Wait."  He says and tugs at the blanket over his thighs, shifting until he pulls it fully off.  He folds the fabric delicately and places it on the back of the chair.  At Derek's questioning look, he says, "It's not like I can swim with it on." 

He reaches up for Derek, and he obliges, picking Stiles' up and putting him in the chair.

"I'm guessing you don't have a secret stash of never-been-used speedos tucked away in your trunk?"  Stiles asks with a smirk.  Derek glares.  "Oh well, it's not like we're going to get arrested for public indecency with all these people here."  Stiles gestures around the empty beach, the woman and dog only a speck in the distance by now.

Derek snorts and goes for his belt.

He carries Stiles right into the water, skin pale against Derek's dark tan.  He reaches a hand down, fingers skimming the surface, tangling in a thick strand of weed.  Derek chuckles when he makes a face of disgust.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"Not yet,"  Stiles grins, his face only inches away from Derek's, his other hand wrapped around his neck for support, finger tracing along to the knob of his spine like he doesn't know he's doing it.  After a while Derek stops, lowering Stiles gently into the surf.

"You good?"  He asks, waiting for Stiles to get his bearings.  He looks beautiful like this, half submerged in the water, eye blinking like he believed he would never get to feel this again, like he still can't believe it, even now.  He shifts in Derek's arms, torso rising out of the water, breathing heavily.

"Wait a moment,"  Stiles breathes, looking up and meeting Derek's eyes.  There's barely hidden joy in his, just waiting to burst out.  Stiles takes a few deep breathes, prolonging the moment, before swallowing heavily.  "Okay."  He says, turning over and moving his arms, kicking his thighs, regaining his equilibrium.

He laughs headily, head thrown up to the sky and Derek finds himself smiling along.  He looks beautiful like this, like he has water in his blood.

"How does it feel?"  Derek asks, reaching out and picking a strand of weed caught in Stiles' hair.

"Like coming home."  He lets out a burst of laughter, "Fuck, it feels so good!"

"That's great for you, me on the other hand, my balls feel like they're about to fall off."  Derek says, a smile pulling the corners of his mouth up, amused.

Stiles looks at him incredulously, head dipping under the water every time a wave hits, "I don't think I've ever heard you make a joke."

Derek raises a brow, "You've only known me a day."

"You don't seem the joking type."  Stiles says, blinking water out of his eyes.

Derek licks his lips, shrugging, "I'm not."

"I'm glad I'm rubbing off on you then."  Stiles says, before turning red as a tomato, "Uh, I mean, uh..."  Derek chuckles and Stiles pouts, "Shut up."

Afterwards they sit on the beach, Stiles' tartan blanket wrapped around his shoulders, preventing him from burning to a crisp in the potent evening sun.

"Do you often go to the casino?"  Derek asks curiously as he watches the sun moves to shrink over the horizon, in an hour or two they'll have to leave.

Stiles shrugs, "Nothing much to do here without a job to keep myself busy.  It's not as if I have to work, got enough money from the insurance and the payout to live out ten lifetimes in peace."

"I work,"  Derek says, looking out at the water where it beats against the tan sand.  "Keep myself busy."

"Yeah, you kind of have to."  Stiles says and Derek turns to look at him, meeting his eyes as they dip in confusion, "Don't you?"

"I've got my own settlements to live off of."  He finds himself sharing, surprised at how open he is, how talkative.

Stiles opens his mouth, before closing it, and Derek appreciates that he doesn't ask.  Derek really doesn't want to explain.

"Maybe we should go on a road trip,"  Stiles suggests,  "I hear that's what people who come into money from shitty life experiences do."

"Been there, done that.  It's not as great as you think it is."  Derek replies, picking up a smooth, flat pebble from the sand, running his fingers lightly over it.

"Maybe you just haven't traveled with the right kind of people?"

"Does myself count as the right people?"  He shifts his knuckles, trying to see if he can make the pebble walk.

"Who goes on a road trip by themselves?"  Stiles asks with such mock indignation in his voice, Derek chuckles.

"Those who have no one to go on road trips with."  He says, just as the pebble drops from his fingers.

"Here, let me try."  Stiles holds out his hand, and Derek puts the pebble in it, but Stiles just looks at him expectantly, "What, aren't you going to show me?"

Derek sighs and leans closer, pointing to Stiles' knuckles he instructs him on how to move his fingers.  Unsurprisingly, it falls on his first attempt.

"This is harder than I thought it would be."  He says with a pout, staring dejectedly where the pebble now rests in the sand.

"Did you think it would be easy?"

Stiles moves the bundle of clothing supporting his back and collapses down on the blanket Derek dug out of the car.  A small plume of dust rises in his wake.  "I thought it would be like swimming, you learn it once, and then you never forget it."  When he notices Derek's look of curiosity, he explains, "My mother worked in the casino, she taught me when I was a kid."

"I can show you again, if you'd like?"  Derek offers.  Stiles smiles and picks up  the pebble, holding it out for Derek to take.

"Thanks."  Stiles says, meeting his eyes, "For today."

Derek watches the wind blow a stand of drying hair across Stiles' forehead, he reaches and pushes it out of his face, "It was my pleasure."

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a oneshot, but I might continue it after I finish my other projects, make it more like the film and incorporate the Friends With Benefits trope, maybe...


End file.
